


Hinder

by les Amis DCD (AlmostARealHobbit)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Some fucking up on Grantaire's part, also Grantaire is a crass lil troll just so you know, and a lot of Grantaire being extra af, but who's surprised? certainly not Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27999081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD
Summary: "It’s Jehan who told him about the app, Hinder, and if the title had Grantaire chuckling, learning about the point of this app had him howling in laughter. What sort of genius does one have to be to come up with something like that? Not a dating app, but a date crashing app. Grantaire is dying to use it himself. He wants to see what sort of crazy excuse his date crasher will use, he wants absurd, he wants drama."The five times Grantaire uses Hinder to crash his date, and the one time he doesn't.
Relationships: Bahorel/Jean Prouvaire, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 181
Kudos: 235





	1. FIRST

**Author's Note:**

> Woo! Yet another fic which came from my half-delirious mind during NaNoWriMo!
> 
> This was inspired by this [post](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/329536897738714405/) (can't find the actual tumblr post anymore) and a very fun HC session a while ago on Discord.
> 
> As always, many many thanks to [cantando-siempre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantando_siempre/pseuds/cantando_siempre) for beta'ing this fic!

The first time Grantaire uses Hinder, he’s not even that desperate to get out of his date. Mostly, he’s doing it out of curiosity which, granted, is a little shitty for the poor guy who bothered to come all the way to the café and even put on an outrageously low v-neck. But then again, Grantaire has never pretended to be a good man; if anything, he makes a point of being as self-deprecating as can be —if he says he sucks first, others won’t have the satisfaction of doing so, and sure, that’s a little fucked up, but Grantaire isn’t known for healthy coping mechanisms either.

It’s Jehan who told him about the app Hinder, and if the title had Grantaire chuckling, learning about the point of this app had him howling in laughter. What sort of genius does one have to be to come up with something like that? Not a  _ dating _ app, but a date  _ crashing _ app. Wonderful. And Jehan sold it well to Grantaire, too. They’ve never used it themself to be saved from a hellish date —they’re much too disgustingly in love with Bahorel for that, and Grantaire hates the fact that he can’t really be mad at them, because they’re so oddly perfect together, a mismatch not made in Heaven, but in plain old messy life. Jehan, however, has been using Hinder regularly to  _ be _ the crasher, and that idea, that mental image of Jehan showing up at random people’s dates to use their loveable weird self for the greater good very nearly sent Grantaire to a whole other plane of existence. Bahorel’s retelling of the one time Jehan had stopped a date in full Frodo Baggins costume by telling the two poor sods with the utmost seriousness: “your union will birth the Antichrist,” only to leave the place with the table’s bread basket under their arm really did have Grantaire’s soul leave his body for a hot second. And he’s not even mad about that near death experience, because Bahorel —who had been undercover in the restaurant that day to witness his partner’s craft— is just as close to choking on his own breath when he tells Grantaire the story. 

Needless to say that, with this shining review of the app, Grantaire is  _ dying _ to use it himself. He wants to see what sort of crazy excuse his date crasher will use, he wants absurd, he wants  _ drama _ . Which the poor guy Grantaire is currently on a date with doesn’t know, obviously, and Grantaire  _ does _ feel a little guilty about it. 

Though in his defence, thirty minutes into the date, Grantaire cannot say he’s having a grand time anyway. In fact, had it taken place before Grantaire had found out about the glorious powers of Hinder, he would have probably tried to cut it short by pretending he was feeling poorly, or by texting Bossuet to fake an emergency call. Again, Grantaire has never said he had great habits; this app only makes his usual shitty behaviour much more believable and entertaining —or so he hopes.

The guy, Pierre, is, to put it simply,  _ dull _ . He doesn’t seem like a bad guy, which is why Grantaire had slipped him his number when they’d met at the Corinth a week prior, but the past thirty minutes have seemed like some of the longest of Grantaire’s entire life. Every topic he attempts to tackle falls short. Grantaire has pretty varied tastes; he dabbles in many activities and that usually means that it’s fairly easy for him to hit it off about at least  _ one _ topic. Grantaire has tried talking about literature, art, boxing, dancing, fencing, cooking, sleeping and even  _ kittens _ , but Pierre is… a mystery. Pierre seems to not like anything much at all —and that cynicism thing is usually right up Grantaire’s alley, but even Grantaire isn’t allergic to hobbies and fun. Pierre’s one cheeky little hobby is _ collecting old stamps _ . Thus, Grantaire has concluded, Pierre has the personality of a bland slice of white bread. Or possibly of a wall; a bare wall, no picture —God forbid, since Pierre  _ “doesn’t really get art” _ — just white paint that’s already dry and maybe peeling off a little. Pierre is definitely not getting any from Grantaire tonight.

Grantaire is aware that he might be a little harsh, but Grantaire also has his finger hovering over the “Crash my date!” button under the table, and he cannot freaking wait to see how it plays out. So naturally, Grantaire presses the button, and he waits.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait all that long. The skeptic part of him —which really makes up 90% of Grantaire— had half expected for this thing to take so long that the “crasher” would show up by the time Grantaire and Pierre were about to call it a day. 

Grantaire was wrong. And Grantaire, most importantly, had not expected for his date crasher to be an honest, legit, flesh and bones, real life  _ god _ . 

Though he’ll deny it for the rest of his life, when he sees the guy who approaches their table with a resolute, determined air, Grantaire drops his spoon in shock. His mouth falls open in the stupidest of ways, and his freaking cutlery slips from his grasp and clatters loudly in his cup, sloshing coffee over the table. So much for a discreet, subtle save from the grips of a shitty date. Grantaire can’t even blame the app —only his own disastrous bisexual ass.  _ Figures.  _

Grantaire is still gaping like the world’s stupidest fish when the guy —the  _ god _ , sorry, Grantaire is pretty sure he’ll be smote for that slip of the tongue, because this being most definitely isn’t a normal human. At the very least, he’s one sexy alien, but Grantaire’s money is on some Greek deity. And of  _ course, _ Mr Perfection’s voice would be the sexiest thing Grantaire has ever heard, because life is unfair like that.

“Grantaire, what are you doing here?” Very-Well-Might-Be-Real-Life-Apollo says, and Grantaire drops the spoon he’d literally  _ just _ picked up again, along with his dignity. It takes him an agonising second to remember that he did share his name on the app to make the date crashing more convincing. Still, hearing his own name in golden Achilles’ mouth… well. Grantaire is  _ ruined _ . If Pierre is most definitely not getting any tonight, someone definitely will — Grantaire’s right hand, most likely, because there’s no chance on Earth that this Adonis would ever consider Grantaire a worthy sex partner.

After a very long, very horny minute of Grantaire just gaping and gulping, the blond dream speaks again.  _ Right _ , he’s supposed to be crashing this date, so Grantaire should probably keep up with him.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” the vengeful angel says, and he definitely sounds angry. Of course the most beautiful person Grantaire has ever been given the chance to creepily stare at —he’s under no impression that he’s managed to appear the least bit smooth; Grantaire’s street cred would most definitely be shot, if he ever had any to begin with— would be mad at him. Even in pretend. That’s more like Grantaire’s luck. 

Now that he’s been so brutally jolted back into reality, Grantaire realises that he’s supposed to be crashing his own date, which means that he is supposed to react, make it believable. Which also means Grantaire is fucked, because he has no idea what he has supposedly done to upset the most beautiful man alive. So he tries to recall the improv classes he took for a hot minute in high school, channels some of that acting magic, and very smartly answers: “Uuuuh.”

Grantaire is luckier than he expected, because the guy is a  _ pro _ , even if he does frown in Grantaire’s direction for a bit, looking as confused as Grantaire would be if he were crashing the date of such a dimwit. 

“Did you forget we were supposed to meet up so that you could help me draft the pamphlets for next month’s protest? You said you’d draw them,” he says.

And Grantaire gets another shock of confusion.  _ Right _ , Grantaire did write up a quick bio on his Hinder profile, just a few bits of information about himself to give the crasher something to go by. Still, Grantaire is vaguely touched that this guy bothered to read it at all and that he remembers that Grantaire draws.

Grantaire clearly must have looked like a hopeless, gobsmacked idiot again, because the great golden fury finally gives up on trying to get an answer from him and turns to Pierre. He sighs, and for half a second Grantaire is scared that he’s going to complain to Pierre, ask him what he’s doing out here, on a date with someone as stupid as Grantaire. But no, he proves instead once again that he is a  _ professional _ . 

“Oh, hi,” he says, pretending only to just notice Pierre, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even realise—” And shit, he actually looks convincingly embarrassed. Who is this guy, a theatre student? Grantaire would bet that he’s a student — he looks about the same age as himself, possibly even younger. “I’m Enjolras,” the sun god says, and there it is. His  _ name _ . Grantaire manages to keep himself from frowning —Enjolras is a bit of an odd name, and he still looks much more like an ‘Eros’ to Grantaire, but well, everyone makes mistakes, even the parents of this godly being. 

“Uh, Pierre,” Pierre the Wall of Dry White Paint says, and his hesitation comes as a bit of a comfort to Grantaire. Clearly he’s not the only one affected by Enjolras’ looks, and voice, and presence, and every single thing. Still, Pierre loses even more points in Grantaire’s book when he has the presence of mind to extend a hand towards Enjolras.

Enjolras shakes it. “I’m really sorry, I think I’m intruding on something here,”  _ ha _ , damn right he is, “but Grantaire had promised he’d work on those pamphlets with me —I need someone to design them, and the protest is coming up soon. We really need to have them done by tomorrow.” 

Enjolras turns to Grantaire again, and Grantaire only just realises quite how beautiful Enjolras’ eyes are. Even with his steely expression, they’re breathtaking —he still looks pretty annoyed, and that really shouldn’t be a turn on for Grantaire, yet here he is.

Finally,  _ finally _ , Grantaire recovers a brain cell, because even he understands that this is his turn to speak. “Oh, uh— shit. I’m so sorry, Enjolras. It completely slipped my mind,” he says, with little enough fumbling that he’s almost proud of himself. Because he’s on a roll now, Grantaire turns to Pierre and feigns the most apologetic smile he can muster —he’s actually great at those. He’s rarely ever sincerely apologetic, but he’s amazing at pretending that he is to get out of all sorts of social situations. “I’m so, so sorry, Pierre. I did promise him I’d work on those, and we do have a tight deadline.” 

Pierre might be a complete bore, but he  _ is _ a pretty nice guy. He appears, thankfully, understanding, and he nods. “Oh right, sure!” He even shifts around to grab his jacket and his backpack, gathering his stuff up.

Grantaire stands and starts doing the same, and he downs the last of his coffee in one go. It’s bitter and strong, yet Grantaire can tell he’s going to need something much stronger the moment he gets home, because  _ what the hell? _ “I’m really sorry,” he repeats, because he does feel a little bit like a jerk still, and that’s probably because he  _ is _ a little bit of one. 

“It’s okay, honestly. I’ll let you two work,” Pierre reassures him. “I’ll text you later, though, Grantaire?” 

Grantaire nods. “Of course, sure! Let’s do this again later!” 

They really, really won’t. 

Grantaire doesn’t think he would have wanted them to before, but now he definitely doesn’t, not when he knows that every time he looks at Pierre, he’ll be thinking of Enjolras’ feigned anger and his striking features. If it was shitty to lead Pierre on before, it would be downright cruel now. 

“Definitely,” Pierre agrees, and it’s every bit as awkward as an aborted date with someone you didn’t really hit it off with can be. It’s the somewhat acknowledged accord that neither will try to reach out and keep in touch, and the tacit agreement that neither will call each other’s lie when they say, “See you later!”

Enjolras shakes Pierre’s hand again, tells him bye, and turns to Grantaire, “Let’s go?” he says, and Grantaire has to consciously remind himself how to use his own lungs for a moment. His heart stupidly skips a beat, as if Enjolras were actually inviting him somewhere. He nods, because they’ve gotten so far on this masterful date crashing, and Grantaire doesn’t fancy dropping the ball so close to the end.

“Yeah, sure!” 

And the three of them are out of the café, Enjolras and Grantaire waving bye to Pierre, who walks in another direction. They walk, too, to keep up the pretence. As soon as they’re far enough, and after Enjolras has looked over his shoulder to make sure Pierre is gone, too, Grantaire breathes out:

“Thank you so much, dude.” 

Enjolras frowns, likely at the usage of the word ‘dude’, and Grantaire swears in his head, loudly, violently, and not very kindly at his own self. He still hasn’t established that the man actually  _ is _ a man or even a human, after all. The ‘dude’ just slipped out due to habit, after too much exposure to Bahorel and Eponine. Grantaire goes to apologise —for what, he isn’t too sure— but Enjolras cuts in first. “What did he do? Pierre, I mean. He seemed friendly enough,” he says, though he doesn’t look very convinced of his own words. Grantaire seriously doubts that someone like Enjolras, who seems to look at the world like he’s going to devour it all and protect it with his life simultaneously would settle for anyone simply because they look ‘friendly’. Grantaire feels a little creepy for the many things he’s noticed about Enjolras already, but that also doesn’t keep him from filing them carefully under the mental folder of ‘things he’ll never ever forget’.

Grantaire scoffs; he’s nowhere near Enjolras’ league and could never hope to set the bar as high as him, but he does have some standards. “Oh, he was. But he also asked me how many seasons of the Iliad there were, and if the show was already finished, when I mentioned it.”

Enjolras snorts. “Right.” 

“And I mean, fair, not everyone knows about literature, but there’s only so much small talk one can do after realising that you have absolutely  _ nothing _ in common,” Grantaire says, and that’s much more charitable that whatever had been going through his head when he was sitting before Pierre inside the café. “That, and also I was curious about the app. It was my first time using it.”

Enjolras nods in understanding. “That’s what I thought, yes,” he says, and Grantaire isn’t really sure what he means by it, but he thinks he ought to feel a little insulted. He can’t really find it himself to do so, though, not when Enjolras levels a thoughtful gaze on him. 

He’s  _ so _ fucked. 

“And how did you find it? Happy with the outcome?” 

“I actually expected something a little more dramatic, if I’m honest,” Grantaire confesses, and he’s suddenly afraid that it might all come out wrong, that Enjolras might be offended. “Not that I wasn’t happy with your, uh, performance. It’s just that the friend who introduced me to the app is a date crasher, too, and from what they’ve told me, they’re pretty theatrical with it.” 

From the corner of his eyes, Grantaire notices Enjolras soften ever so slightly. He even smiles a little, and Grantaire is suddenly dying to know how a real, honest, wide smile looks like on him. He thinks he could be blinded by such a smile,, or be turned into stone at the first glance, but he can’t really find it in himself to fear that scenario. “One of my friends does that, too. They really go all the way.” 

Grantaire wants Enjolras to say more, and not only because his voice is still doing some  _ things _ to Grantaire’s insides, but also because if the stories of his friend are anything like Jehan’s, he’s very much down to listen. Grantaire likes nothing more than a good laugh. A good laugh, and perhaps Enjolras’ face, now.

But Enjolras suddenly turns towards Grantaire and extends a hand to him. Grantaire blinks, and only just realises that they had kept walking, and that they now stand by a Metro station. “That’s my station,” Enjolras says, still holding up his hand for a shake.

“Uh, sure,” Grantaire stumbles to say. He finally shakes his hand, and  _ of freaking course _ Enjolras’ hands would be soft as hell. Grantaire’s own hands are still bruised from boxing and rough and calloused from all the manual work that he does, and his fingers are even a little wonky and twisted from the pencils and brushes he’s been clutching since he was a kid. Enjolras thankfully doesn’t show any discomfort, though Grantaire is sure the feeling must be akin to shaking hands with a large chunk of bark-covered meat. “Thank you again for today,” Grantaire repeats, perhaps to give himself an excuse to keep his hold on Enjolras a little while longer. 

“You’re welcome. Have a good evening, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, pulling away. 

And just like that, he’s gone, and Grantaire finds himself staring at the stairs that lead to the Metro station, feeling thoroughly lost and half convinced he’s only imagined the whole scene.


	2. SECOND

It turns out that he hasn’t. Imagined it, that is. When he finally gets home feeling all hot and bothered by a damn  _ handshake _ —and yes, that’s a new low for Grantaire, he’s keenly aware of it— and drinks himself into a torpor, Grantaire checks his phone. There it is, the app, still here with its gloriously stupid pun of a name, still open on a message that says that ‘Fear not! Enjolras is on his way!’ Grantaire closes the app and vows never to use it again, not if it’s going to ruin him for all human beings with one fell swoop of divine date crasher.

Except that the second time Grantaire uses the app, he actually needs it. He’s at a restaurant, and it’s actually a pretty nice one. It doesn’t look cheap, exactly, but it’s not a fancy restaurant either. There is quite a homey feeling that hangs in the place, a warmth Grantaire hasn’t been able to find that often in Paris, though Grantaire considers himself somewhat of an expert on Paris and its cool, secret locations. 

It’s Grantaire’s date who chose the place, and that’s about the only positive thing that Grantaire can associate with his date. 

Eponine set him up with the guy. She said she was tired of watching him pine away for a random dude who’d had the decency to help him out of a crappy date —not that she would have done it herself, but that’s alright, because Grantaire wouldn’t have either; that’s why they’re such good friends. Kinship. Solidarity. A companionable acknowledgement of their own mediocrity. So, she’d sent a few texts and had found a date for Grantaire the following evening. 

Grantaire has regrets. Several of them, in fact, beginning with his very friendship with Eponine. Because, granted, Grantaire is no choir boy. He looks scruffy at best, and that’s when he makes the effort of trimming his beard a little and wearing a t-shirt that’s not half covered in paint, or something else than dance tights —they make his butt look amazing, which is possibly the only thing he has going for himself, so modesty can get fucked; a boy needs to feel hot every now and then. 

But  _ this _ guy, the very guy Grantaire is currently on a date with, is what can only be qualified as  _ shady as fuck _ . It feels a little rich to think so when the guy, Montparnasse, is actually dressed incredibly well, if strongly on the emo side. He’s wearing all black, from his shiny, polished shoes to his wide brim hat, the only exception being his gold jewellery which stands out beautifully against the black. So okay, the guy is actually pretty hot, but he’s got an air to himself that Grantaire cannot explain but gives him the absolute creeps.

His smile, which he flashes a bit too often for Grantaire’s taste, reminds him of a shark. It’s all shiny white teeth, and predatory and vicious, and actually that’s pretty insulting to sharks, so Grantaire mentally takes that thought back lest Musichetta whack him on the head for it, because  _ “sharks aren’t vicious” _ . But Montparnasse undoubtedly is.

He’s actually pretty smart. Very much so, in fact, and even that makes Grantaire uncomfortable, because Montparnasse’s intelligence feels cold and calculating. It’s nothing like the enthusiastic joy that Joly feels for learning, that wonderful, youthful quality of curiosity, or like Jehan, who is their own brand of weird and will dive deep into the most random bits of knowledge for the simple sake of knowing them. Montparnasse’s smarts feel he’s trying to get one over you, like he’s assessing you, appraising his prey to hunt it better later. 

So really, even if Grantaire hadn’t planned to use the app again, he thinks no one can blame him for excusing himself to the bathroom when Montparnasse’s foot rubs at Grantaire’s calf for the third time. Nor can he be blamed for hurriedly pulling out his phone, opening the app and frantically pressing the “Crash my date!” button. 

When Grantaire returns to the table, he looks almost composed but, if Grantaire were a religious man, he’d be praying for his saviour to come quickly. 

His saviour does come quickly. Again. Because luck would have it that Grantaire’s saviour is, once again, Enjolras. He strides inside the restaurant in all his blindingly bright glory, and Grantaire, who has been eyeing the door for the past ten minutes, notices him assessing the situation. Grantaire sees the cogs of Enjolras’ mind turn, and Grantaire even dares to meet his gaze for a split second. When he does so, he tries to convey the discomfort he’s feeling as well as he can without tipping Montparnasse off, though he thinks he might have failed at that, because the next smile Montparnasse throws in his direction is even more threatening than the previous ones, somehow. It’s still honey sweet, and sickeningly so; it’s so very wrong.

Grantaire barely refrains from sighing in relief when Enjolras’ voice rings just above his shoulder. “Care to explain what’s going on here, Grantaire?” he asks cooly, like ice cold venom sipping inside Grantaire’s veins. And really, ‘ice cold venom’ shouldn’t go straight to Grantaire’s cock, but Grantaire has never pretended he wasn’t into some weird shit. That one is new, but it’s not all that surprising, considering Grantaire’s track record, that he would be stupidly into ‘a golden god’s fury directed right at me and ready to tear me apart’. 

“Enjolras?” he asks. “What— what are you doing here?” Grantaire stumbles, but he thinks it’s not that bad. If he understood the scenario Enjolras is going for right, then this might even make it even more believable.

“I think  _ I _ should be the one asking you this. Because it sure looks like my boyfriend is on a date with some other guy.” He keeps his voice low and level the whole time, but he looks so furious, and his entire demeanour is so stiff and cold, the couple on the table next to them turns to look fearfully at Enjolras. 

Grantaire tries not to drop his fork this time, but he really has to squeeze it painfully tight when Enjolras says the word “boyfriend”. Ah! As if anyone would buy that this deity is dating someone like Grantaire. Still, this is Enjolras’ scenario, he’s doing this to help, and Grantaire isn’t about to blow it. 

“Enjolras, babe, this isn’t what you think,” Grantaire tries, and he’s acutely aware of how cliché this is. He sounds like every single shitty TV-series that features cheating —and that’s a frightening amount— but he also thinks that should do the job. Or rather, he hopes it does. What does someone even say when they get caught cheating? Grantaire is happy to admit that he is a bit of a douchebag on his good days, but even he doesn’t cheat on his partners, so he’s kind of playing it by ear. 

“ _ Sure, _ ” Enjolras starts again, ready to lash out. “Well, you know what? You—” 

Montparnasse, who had been watching the scene unfold with something like malicious glee in his eyes, interrupts. And seriously, where did Eponine find this guy? “Listen, Enjolras, is it? I’m Montparnasse,” he says calmly, and the way he says Enjolras’ name makes Grantaire want to crawl out of his own skin. “I think you should calm down. We were just having a simple dinner and—”

Enjolras interrupts Montparnasse with a single gesture, simply lifting his hand up to signal him to stop talking, and  _ who even does that?  _ Grantaire discovers then that Enjolras’ anger has several layers, and that Grantaire is into every single one of them. The ire that he’d been directing at Grantaire so far was measured, controlled —likely because it had been pretend— but cool and believable all the same. The one he throws at Montparnasse is something else. He looks like he’s torn between spluttering in disbelief, launching into a tirade, or possibly even lunging forward and making Montparnasse eat his own stupid hat. Grantaire would give no small amount of money to see that happen, but he also thinks that the sight might be too much for him to bear and maintain any sort of grasp on his sanity.

Finally, Enjolras speaks again. “Listen, Moparnaf, is it?” he mirrors, butchering Montparnasse’s name with such clear purpose, Grantaire almost wants to snort. “ _ I  _ think you should shut up and  _ leave _ . I’ve got to talk to Grantaire.”

Enjolras stares at Montparnasse; Montparnasse doesn’t look away. It is a battle of might, of intimidation, and however fake this might be, Grantaire feels oddly flattered to be the reason these two beasts are facing each other. Even if one of them likely is the rabid sort who might knife you in a dark alley —Grantaire knows he’s a little dramatic and likely harsh, but listen, he can’t explain it but Montparnasse really does give him the creeps.

Grantaire barely even refrains from whooping when Montparnasse crumbles and looks away for a split second, blinking. It feels pretty childish, settling this mess with a freaking stare battle, but the moment Montparnasse breaks eye contact, a tacit understanding passes. He’s lost here —both his credibility and the argument. He stands abruptly, pushing his chair back in the same movement, which drags it loudly against the restaurant’s tiles. If they hadn’t attracted the attention of the entire restaurant already, they definitely have now. Grantaire makes the mental note to feel mortified later, when he’s not busy riding that wave of relief and dying to hug Enjolras in gratitude —and other not-so-complicated feelings that Grantaire has no plan to ever expose to Enjolras.

“I see,” Montparnasse says. He turns to Grantaire; he’s clearly given up on Grantaire supporting him here, but instead of lashing out in reproach, he smirks so cruelly that Grantaire feels a shiver of cold run down his spine. He very well might be knifed in a dark alley on his way home, tonight. Nice. He hopes Eponine feels like shit and cries, when they find his body behind a trash can, half eaten by rats and bugs. “Good luck with your talk, Grantaire. Enjolras,” he salutes him and honest to god tips his hat at them. This guy really is either the shadiest or the most extra guy Grantaire has ever had the misfortune to meet. 

And just like that, he’s off, with a sure step and his head held much too high for a dude who’s just been kicked out of his own date and is being unashamedly stared at by half of the restaurant’s patrons, and discreetly ogled and judged by the other half.

When he’s out of the restaurant, Grantaire sighs in relief and lets his head hit the table, only narrowly missing his empty plate of starters. He thinks he would have accepted his fate had his aim been a little off —anything is better than Montparnasse trying to play footsie with him under the table. “ _ Fuck _ ,” he breathes out. “Thank you  _ so _ much, dude.” He’s still too overcome by emotion to realise that he just called someone who might just be a god ‘ _ dude _ ’ —for the second time. “He was really starting to freak me out.” 

Enjolras’ voice has softened so much when he speaks, Grantaire has to lift his head back up to make sure it’s really him. “I could tell when I walked in. Did he try anything? Should I call the police?” And okay, the way he frowns and almost spits out the word ‘police’ is pretty hilarious, but Enjolras looks so soft and concerned, Grantaire feels his heart seize up and drop to the bottom of his stomach in the span of a terribly short second. If Grantaire thought he was only into Enjolras being all mad at him, he’s got another thing coming. Again,  _ figures _ . The universe wouldn’t send him a saviour with the might of a giant, the backbone of a titan, and the face of an angel without toying with his feelings too. Fate is twisted like that. It cannot be nice, linear, and generous —not to Grantaire. 

“No, no, it’s okay. He was just a major creep and I’ll definitely stay on the phone with someone when I get home, but he didn’t do anything,” Grantaire says, and who allowed Enjolras to look so honestly relieved? It’s so unfair. 

“I’m really glad to hear.” And he really does look glad. 

Grantaire blanks for a little while. His heart is still pounding like crazy, he feels a rush of adrenaline still running high and loud through his system, and he finds that he doesn’t really want to be alone. Enjolras aside —and Grantaire realises that he would like little more than to spend all of his time around Enjolras— he really feels much too raw at the moment to be left on his own devices. If he is, he thinks he might burst out in tears in the middle of the restaurant, and he’s already done way too much embarrassing shit here for one evening, thank you very much. 

Thankfully, the waitress assigned to his table chooses this moment to collect the remnants of Grantaire and Montparnasse’s starters. Thank fuck for small mercies. 

“Um, the mains you’ve ordered are almost ready,” she says awkwardly as she clears the table. Grantaire has done a fair amount of waitressing and bartending, and he’s heard and seen some truly weird shit, but this scene was especially unexpected and undoubtedly was an experience to witness. Grantaire’s suspicion is confirmed from the way the table to their left is still staring at them overtly —nosy fuckers. “Do you still want them? Would you like us to pack them for you?” 

Grantaire looks helplessly at Enjolras. He’s pretty damn hungry, but he doesn’t fancy having dinner on his own like the loser who got dumped not by one guy, but by  _ two _ , neither of which were his boyfriends in the first place.

“Would you like to have dinner? It’s ordered anyway. We got some pasta, it’s all vegetarian, just so you know,” Grantaire explains, and he hopes he doesn’t sound as pathetic as he feels, but he has little hope of that. 

Enjolras seems to consider it seriously for a long time, but Grantaire might have marked some ‘pity points’ with Enjolras from the whole ‘my date is an absolute creep and I’m a little shaken’ thing, because Enjolras eventually nods. “Sure, okay.” Grantaire only just refrains from gawking. “I’m actually pretty hungry, and I’m free tonight.” 

And just like that, Enjolras removes his jacket, pulls out the chair Montparnasse had just occupied, and sits down. Grantaire finds himself sitting face to face with the god that keeps saving him from shitty dates, and the table on their left looks like this is the best plot-twist of their favourite telenovela.  _ Bah _ , if Grantaire’s mess of a life can entertain someone, he figures, then he might as well.

“So how did you end up on a date with that guy?” Enjolras asks once the waitress leaves.

“A friend set me up on this blind date, she said she was tired to see me pine over—” Grantaire stops abruptly. He’s never been known to have the best head-to-mouth filter —in fact, he’s been in several disastrous situations caused by his complete lack thereof— but this is especially dumb, even for him. If anything, he’s glad to have caught himself when he did. Enjolras looks at him expectantly, apparently genuinely curious of what he has to say, and Grantaire almost regrets Enjolras’ anger —mindlessly horny is something that Grantaire can handle, and he does it well; hopelessly endeared is a whole other can of worms, one Grantaire usually tries to steer well clear from, especially when people so obviously far out of Grantaire’s league are concerned. “Never mind,” he says. “Just a friend setting me up on a blind date, and I’m going to have some words with said friend.” 

Enjolras nods. “I see. I’m glad you had the app to help you get away from it, then.” 

“Speaking of the app, how did you get started with it?” Grantaire has been curious about it since last time. What is someone like Enjolras doing, rescuing people on shit dates when he could be spending time on a date of his own with pretty much every single person on Earth? 

“Just like you, a friend of mine introduced me to it. They’ve been mostly using it to have fun crashing dates, but I like the idea of helping someone get away from a bad situation, or someone who’s making them feel uncomfortable,” he says simply, with none of the obnoxious pretension Grantaire would usually expect from such a statement. The guy really just gets off on helping others, apparently. Grantaire can’t relate, and his natural propensity for cynicism screams at him to call this bullshit for what it is, but Enjolras really is doing a number on his brain, because he just says:

“That’s pretty noble.” And wouldn’t you know, Grantaire even manages not to sound too sarcastic about it. 

Enjolras snorts, and Grantaire has to come to the conclusion that maybe, just  _ maybe _ , Enjolras is human and maybe, just  _ maybe _ , him doing something as undignified as a snort accompanied by a little crunching of his nose is terribly cute. Either way, godly or not, Grantaire has to also come to the now familiar conclusion that he is utterly and entirely  _ fucked _ . “Yeah, I guess that’s my brand. My friend Courfeyrac keeps saying that I have a saviour complex.” 

“Well, considering you seem to be spending your free time helping people out of crappy dates, I think he might not be that far off. You mentioned pamphlets and protests last time, as well?” 

Enjolras, who Grantaire has never seen anything but collected, even in his anger towards Grantaire, and whose only slip of the mask he’d spotted when he’d been trying to kick Montparnasse out, suddenly lights up. If Enjolras was bright before —which he was, Grantaire did consider pulling his sunglasses out— he now  _ shines _ like a star, like the whole freaking sun. Grantaire has to groan inwardly and welcome the desperate pining that will definitely ensue this thing. Take that, Eponine. Serves her right for setting him up with the first creep she could find. 

Enjolras is so very animated, he settles his elbow on the table to lean forward. The change in his demeanour is instantaneous, he goes from intimidatingly untouchable to a total nerd in the blink of an eye, and Grantaire’s brain short circuits. “Yes, I’m an activist. Well, I’m a student, but my friends and I founded an organisation, we mostly focus on social activism and—” He’s interrupted by the waitress coming back with their food.

They eat with little conversation. They do talk —it’s nowhere near as awkward and stilted as it was with Pierre— but Grantaire is acutely aware of the fact that he’s having dinner with a semi-stranger, one he already has an absurdly intense crush on, and he’s sure Enjolras is thinking the same —minus the crush, obviously. So their chatter remains amiable. Mostly, they find out that they go to the same university, Grantaire learns that Enjolras studies law, that he lives with his two best friends, and he tells Enjolras that he studies Classics, and that his flat is a canvas-covered dumpster. And when Grantaire mentions the Iliad, mostly as a nod to their previous conversation and as some sort of a test after his train wreck with Pierre, and Enjolras confesses that he likes Virgil more, Grantaire very nearly swoons like a Victorian lady. 

By the time dinner comes to an end, Grantaire is almost convinced that Enjolras is human, though his perfect imperfection still places him way out of Grantaire’s league, so Grantaire will resign himself to watch from afar, like an 18 th century orphan staring at the window of a bakery, a hunger in his body and in his heart —and really, Grantaire has a wonderfully fertile imagination, one of a trollish magnitude, because who describes being horny that way? Grantaire, and only Grantaire. 

What helps (and also really doesn’t) is the reminder that  _ this _ , this date that most definitely isn’t one —since Grantaire’s actual date has thankfully fucked off, god knows where to likely mug some grandpa in a dark street at night— is not going to happen again. This is a one-time thing, a fortuitous second encounter timed perfectly with Grantaire having food to offer —the only thing he’s got going for himself, along with his butt, which Enjolras can’t see— and with Enjolras being both hungry and free. 

So when time comes to settle the bill, Grantaire insists on paying, and Enjolras’ temper flares up once more. It’s yet another level of irritation uncovered to Grantaire’s greedy, greedy eyes, and directed at none other than Grantaire’s stupid, stupid ass. He is positively  _ charmed _ . And because he doesn’t want this to end, he insists like the contrary asshole that he is. Also, Enjolras just saved his ass from Mr Wide-Brim-Hat-And-Shark-Smile, and that’s the one argument he gives —Grantaire doesn’t think himself the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s also not about to confess to Enjolras that he’s appreciating winding him up immensely, especially since Enjolras’ angry little frown has got to be the cutest thing Grantaire has seen since Joly last showed him pictures of kittens, which, granted, was only yesterday, but Grantaire’s point still stands. 

In the end, Enjolras only accepts for the simple and only reason that Grantaire will not budge —Grantaire, on top of being contrary, is stubborn as hell; he’s gifted like that in the quality department. Grantaire thinks that Enjolras, if this was a world in which pigs flew, in which chickens had teeth, and in which good things happened to Grantaire, would almost look flushed and bothered from the argument. He doesn’t say anything. In fact, he almost sulks a little while Grantaire smirks, smug as anything, and pays for their meal.

“Are you taking the Metro?” Enjolras asks when they leave the restaurant behind them. “Do you want me to walk you to your station?”

Grantaire’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth until he blurts, too loudly and too strongly for this sort of conversation, “I’m taking the bus.” 

“Oh, okay,” Enjolras says, and he doesn’t look taken aback, because probably-not-deities-just-superior-humans don’t look taken aback. But he’d kind of look taken aback, if Grantaire could make himself believe he was. “Then get home safe, Grantaire. And thank you for dinner.” He leans down quickly to give Grantaire a kiss goodbye to his cheek, and Grantaire momentarily forgets his name.

“You too,” he answers dumbly to Enjolras’ already retreating back, and he curses at himself for not coming up with anything more articulated. 

Well,  _ fuck _ . 

  
  



	3. THIRD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: a character experiences biphobia

The third time Grantaire logs onto the Hinder app, he’s really not given the choice. Well, the date was his choice. A dumb one, clearly, considering the outcome, and also a pretty misguided and shitty move too, since it might be considered as taking advantage of the girl, but, well. Grantaire has been doing his best trying to get Enjolras off of his mind. 

It’s been two weeks since his date with Montparnasse, and while Grantaire is ecstatic to report that he has not seen him once ever since —and good thing too, because Grantaire is convinced that he wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale, otherwise— he also has not set eyes on Enjolras either. Which doesn’t mean he hasn’t  _ seen _ Enjolras at all, since Grantaire’s treacherous mind has been supplying visions of his saviour at about every street corner, in most university corridors, and behind each bat of Grantaire’s eyelids. It’s grossly unfair, and it’s driving Grantaire crazy. 

He’s running on some pent up energy and frustration that, should he study from a little closer, he’d find are very much the manic rush of a new (but solid) crush and plain old horniness. Grantaire  _ won’t _ , however, study anything any closer, because he’s not big on introspection and only ever does so when it benefits him or when he’s feeling especially self-deprecating.

Right now, he’s not feeling self-deprecating, which is a feat in itself. It would be pretty great news for his therapist —if he wasn’t feeling really damn sorry for himself instead. 

Which is why Jehan helpfully suggested Grantaire tries to get his mind off of things, and why Bahorel unhelpfully suggested that getting laid might do the job. 

It’s also why Grantaire finds himself on a date with a girl who really isn’t nearly as bad as Montparnasse, but actually makes him regret Pierre’s lack of opinion on pretty much anything. Because at least, Pierre didn’t have the gal to say something so idiotic and insulting as, “Oh, I think it’s so cool that you’re bisexual. Bisexual guys are actually so hot —even though I’m not sure I could trust them in a relationship.” 

Grantaire does have to do a double-take when he hears that, because while he pretty much always assumes the worst in people, the sheer ignorance of it all still manages to take him by surprise. 

“Uh, that’s actually a pretty biphobic thing to say,” Grantaire points out when he recovers.

And  _ this _ is how you ruin a perfect little walk to the park with hot chocolates, if you ask Grantaire. From then on, the girl, Céline, won’t shut up and somehow, every additional point she makes in a desperate attempt to prove that she isn’t ignorant just digs further into the depths of idiocy and misconception. To his credit, Grantaire  _ does  _ try to educate her and correct her disgusting biphobia. He  _ does  _ make an admirable effort, and he would like the record to show it, because Grantaire rarely has any patience to educate misinformed bigots —which is also why he very quickly loses patience and stops trying. 

Now, the logical solution would be for Grantaire to simply leave and let Céline feel stupid and rejected and for him not to feel an ounce of remorse on the matter. Grantaire does have a mind to do it, and it sounds like the most appealing thing his mind has ever been able to behold, right after raclette and Enjolras’ lips. But there is also the crux of the matter. Grantaire  _ could _ leave, but Grantaire could also turn the app on and use Hinder on the off chance that Enjolras might be his saviour once more. 

It really is a gamble, one Grantaire is very unlikely to win —what are the odds that Enjolras would help him out for the third time in a row? Does the app not have any other date crashers? The odds are low, but Grantaire is feeling lucky and frankly more than a little desperate —to see Enjolras again or to get rid of Céline? The world may never know. But if the world really is a curious little fucker, then the answer is both.

Grantaire feels like he should maybe try to play the lottery only a short fifteen minutes after Grantaire pulled out his phone to ask for someone to crash his date —yes, he did just use his phone while on a date, and he even used the opportunity to ask Bossuet to buy him toilet roll on his way home since he stole Grantaire’s last one the night before (“emergencies, don’t ask”). Grantaire, who rarely cares much about politeness, really stops giving a single shit about being rude when the person he’s talking to has decided to objectify him and his fellow bisexual pals.

When Enjolras shows up at the end of the park’s alley, Grantaire thinks he really should find a casino and bet everything he owns, because this luck is surreal. Enjolras  _ is _ surreal. 

“Grantaire! Is that you?” Enjolras calls out when he approaches, and the friendly tone he takes is a clear change of speed from Enjolras’ anger the first two times. This time, he greets Grantaire like an old friend he hasn’t seen in such a long time, he cannot quite believe to see him here. He puts a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder and scans his face, beaming, as if to ensure that Grantaire is indeed his long lost friend.

Grantaire feigns surprise. “Oh, Enjolras? It’s been such a long time!”

Enjolras laughs, with the wide eyes and bright smile of a person who was just offered a much welcome surprise by the randomness of life. The sound feels like a punch to Grantaire’s guts, and Enjolras’ expression has him winded, too. He feels especially glad that it is Enjolras’ turn to speak, because he needs some time to find his breath again. “I know! How long has it been? Four? Five years? Since the Baccalauréat, right? It’s so good to see you! You look great!” he shoots rapidly, enthusiasm coating his voice.

Grantaire is sure his voice comes tight and choked off when he manages to say, “You too!” Because Enjolras does, indeed, look great, though Grantaire is sure that Enjolras was just as breathtaking four years ago than he is now. In fact, Grantaire is convinced that Enjolras must have been one of those assholes going through puberty unbothered by any of the things peasants like Grantaire and the rest of humanity had to suffer through. Enjolras looks like he’s never had a zit on his face, like his voice has never once gone wonky as it deepened —in all fairness, his voice still isn’t very deep— like he grew beautifully into his delicate features, like his teeth were perfect without braces and like he was always tall as a tree from the start. Grantaire is actually ready to bet that Enjolras was born like one of those jacked babies from Renaissance paintings. 

Before Enjolras can keep going, Céline, still by Grantaire’s side, clears her throat. She looks expectantly at Grantaire, waiting for him to make the introductions, and Grantaire dislikes her all the more for interrupting Enjolras in his performance.

“Oh uh, Céline, this is Enjolras, a friend from high school. Enjolras, this is uh, Céline,” Grantaire says, and he carefully avoids describing his involvement with Céline, because he really isn’t sure how you’re supposed to introduce the person you’re on your first date with, when you’re absolutely convinced that this is also going to be the last. 

He also looks up to Enjolras, locks eyes with him meaningfully, as if daring him to comment. Hinder is a  _ date  _ crashing app, and by using it to help him get rid of the woman after his previous dates, he is as good as coming out as bisexual to Enjolras. Grantaire doesn’t have any specific reason to fear Enjolras’ reaction, especially since he’s pretty sure that Enjolras is queer in some shape or form himself, but Grantaire’s last figurative, biphobic slap in the face is fresh —about twenty minute fresh, actually— and the idea of receiving another one from a member of his community hurts more than the first one ever could. It always does. As far as Grantaire’s shit-o-meter is concerned, nothing can quite top the unique, cold, numbing stab of hurt and betrayal that comes from your identity being negated, mocked or objectified by fellow queers.

Enjolras holds his gaze for a second before breaking it off to look at Céline. He smiles at her kindly, though Grantaire would notice, if he was a little more delusional and less prone to wishful thinking, that Enjolras’ smile has lost some of his warmth. Grantaire doesn’t know what to make of this, so he promptly drops the thought and gets back to his character.

“It’s nice to meet you, Céline. It’s good to meet a friend of Grantaire. Did he tell you we used to date when we were in Première?”

This time, Grantaire does trip on his own breath; he coughs to mask the way he just choked on his own tongue. This is the second time Enjolras pretends that they have been romantically involved. Grantaire thinks he should probably let Enjolras know that this isn’t the best course of action. Enjolras is a great actor, but he blows their cover each time; this isn’t believable in the slightest. The two of them, together, wouldn’t even be a thing in an alternate universe in which Grantaire was miles more handsome, brighter and kinder, and Enjolras was way less beautiful, passionate and well-intentioned —such a universe is unlikely to exist.

“He didn’t,” Céline says, but Enjolras has already stopped paying any attention to her and turned back towards Grantaire.

“Are you still in touch with anyone from school? Do you know, it’s so funny, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and I were talking about you just the other day. Combeferre was wondering what you’ve been up to!” Enjolras says, a rapid spitfire of words, and Grantaire opens his mouth to answer, but Enjolras doesn’t stop. He clearly doesn’t have any plan to, and Grantaire is grateful for the opportunity to stand back and let Enjolras do his job. 

Céline, however, seems much less enthusiastic about the idea. She is scowling, and Grantaire cannot find it in himself to feel sorry about it. 

“We were talking about our first loves, so naturally I talked about you. And Courfeyrac obviously had a long list of people —do you remember how he was? He dated a good third of our year, and at least a dozen people from the year above us. He was telling us about Maxime Pachot —remember him? Courfeyrac dated him about the same time we started dating. Well, Maxime had a baby, a girl, and she already looks so much like him, it’s eerie. Fatherhood seems to suit him, though! He’s matured a lot! You remember him, right? He was in our Spanish class, our teacher was Señora Martínez. You know, the one who always marked our assignments arbitrarily, depending on who she liked best, so we staged a sit-in one afternoon to protest?”

And he keeps going and going. Grantaire tries to nod and acquiesce at the right times, but Enjolras soldiers on, only throwing a few quick glances at Céline every now and then. Whatever Enjolras is doing seems to be working. She looks increasingly annoyed, and quite frankly, Grantaire would also be  _ pissed _ , if it happened to him. Actually, he would be pissed if an actual high school alumnus came to reminisce about every one of his classmates and teachers. Because it’s Enjolras, however —and Grantaire is quickly coming to terms with the fact that Enjolras will get a special treatment on pretty much anything, since everything he does is either unspeakably hot, or inexplicably endearing, or worse,  _ both _ — the whole inventory of people he doesn’t know and things he hasn’t done is fun, if slightly overwhelming. Grantaire finds himself hanging onto his every word, especially as he grows increasingly convinced that Enjolras’ anecdotes are real. He drinks them in, the nuggets and tidbits that Enjolras cares to share with the world. 

Céline sighs and opens her mouth. Grantaire lunges forward —metaphorically, only, because bodily would have been awkward, but he kind of wishes he could have anyway. “Yes! I remember the sit-ins! I remember you were behind most of them,” Grantaire says, because he gets the feeling that, if he is as into the conversation as Enjolras, Céline won’t be able to change the conversation and kick Enjolras out. Also, Grantaire finds it easy to believe that Enjolras  _ did _ indeed stage freaking sit-ins in high school to protest arbitrary marking. If he understands Enjolras at all, the guy was also fighting to set up a composting bin on the school grounds and organising demonstrations in the courtyard for vegetarian, Halal, and Kosher lunch options. Which, really, good for him. But the image of teenager Enjolras that Grantaire is quickly forming in his head would have  _ hated _ teenager Grantaire —fairly so, Grantaire hated teenager Grantaire, too. He would never have dated him. 

At any rate, Grantaire thinks he might have aimed true, because Enjolras looks taken aback and  _ blushes _ for a solid thirty seconds. 

“Didn’t you organise one with Combeferre to get the school to only use recycled paper for handouts, too? Was it the one for which the headmaster got involved?” 

Enjolras laughs. Either it’s a genuine laugh, or Enjolras deserves an Oscar. Grantaire beams and immediately feels stupid for feeling so proud of making someone laugh. This whole thing is ridiculous.

“No, that was the time we followed Martin Bernet throughout the whole school for a week to show him how creepy he was being to girls and make sure he wouldn’t harass anyone else.”

Grantaire has to laugh, too. He’s dying to know if this really happened. He can picture it, Enjolras the vengeful teenage god, stalking a creep to teach him that stalking is indeed creepy. From the stand-down with Montparnasse that Grantaire got to witness, he easily thinks Enjolras would be able to do it, and to pull it off. “Yes, I remember that! You got sent to the headmaster’s office —what did he say to you, again? Didn’t you get a ton of detention for that?” 

“Nope!” Enjolras says proudly. From the corner of his eyes, Grantaire sees that Céline is fuming silently, and so very close to snapping. If he sees anything, Enjolras doesn’t show it — _ get this man an Oscar _ , Grantaire thinks. “Courfeyrac was involved, too, so we were in his office together. And Courfeyrac’s dads are lawyers, remember? So he pulled out legal jargon and completely talked our way out of it. The ton of detention happened after the bathroom protest.” 

“Right! The bathroom protest!” Grantaire exclaims, and that does seem to do it. Céline snaps. 

“Uh, are you gonna catch up for long? Because we were kind of in the middle of something.” 

Enjolras turns to her, retort obviously at the ready, all the joy in his face is gone. However faked the conversation with Enjolras had been, Grantaire decides there and then that her interruption is the last straw, her capital offence. He jumps in and says, “Well actually, now that you’re mentioning it, we  _ are  _ kind of in the middle of something.” He gestures at the air between Enjolras and himself. 

Céline gawks. She looks furious, and Grantaire tries very hard not to appear too gleeful. He definitely fails, and that’s undoubtedly a dick move, as was not leaving the date simply when she started spouting bullshit, but hey, Grantaire is comfortable with the idea of being a dick. Also, the moment she leaves, he’ll find himself with Enjolras, who might look as animated and amused as he did a few moments prior, and Grantaire will take some shit karma and coal in his Christmas stockings if it means that he gets to receive Enjolras’ attention that way again. And this might sound really pathetic, this whole convoluted plan to spend time with Enjolras, but Grantaire is also comfortable with the idea of being pathetic. 

“Okay, I’m out of here,” Céline snaps, finishing the content of her cup in one quick, furious swig. “Bye, Grantaire,” she says as she leaves without a single glance back. Her goodbye has no warmth whatsoever, it’s perfunctory at best, and mostly meant to be petty. Grantaire can work with petty.

“Bye Céline! Have a good life! Try to read up on biphobia!” 

She flips him the bird, and Grantaire laughs. Good riddance.

“Read up on biphobia?” Enjolras asks, a frown edged deep between his eyebrows. Grantaire wants to smooth it with his thumb, to kiss it smooth, to nuzzle it into relaxing. He sincerely doubts that would be welcome, however, so instead he digs his fingernails deep into the fist he’s squeezing tight. It doesn’t hurt, because he bites his fingernails to stubs which look pretty gross, with the skin around his nails all red and irritated, but Grantaire can’t really bring himself to care. It’s often either biting his nails or giving in to the itch of drinking. He’ll take gross, stubby nails any time.

“Yeah, I mentioned being bi to her,” Grantaire says slowly, watching Enjolras’ expression very carefully, studying the change in his face and looking for a scowl, a mocking glance. Nothing comes. If anything, Enjolras just looks expectant, impatient for Grantaire to finish his meandering sentence. Grantaire continues, “She had some thoughts on bisexuality, and most of them were stereotyping and gross. Apparently, bi men are hot, but she’s not sure she can really trust us.”

Enjolras turns to the direction Céline has left for; though she is long gone, he looks incensed, and Grantaire smirks. He’d missed it, Enjolras’ fury. It’s even better today, in the afternoon light, where the sun, in direct comparison with Enjolras’ fiery eyes and clenched jaw and fists, falls miserably short. And fuck, Grantaire really is so far gone for this guy, it’s ridiculous. 

“Well, now I wish I’d been even more obnoxious,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire has to laugh. 

“Yeah, actually do you need a moment to catch your breath? Something to drink?” Grantaire asks. “I wasn’t aware humans had the ability to get out this many words per minute.” 

“You should meet Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says. “But actually, if you have something to drink, I won’t say no,” he adds, looking oddly sheepish.

Grantaire came empty handed, no backpack or satchel to store his usual water bottle. Instead, he offers up his hot chocolate. It’s half empty and probably just about lukewarm, now, but it’s all he has on him. He tells so to Enjolras. 

“Sure, thank you.” He takes a careful sip.

“You can finish it, if you want,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras nods gratefully before doing just that. It’s the very least Grantaire can do; Enjolras has bailed him out of shitty situations a few times, now. At this point, Grantaire would give him the shirt on his back, his only sandwich, his last cigarette, a forehead kiss, a blowjob— 

“I’m sorry you had to deal with her ignorance, Grantaire,” Enjolras says as he leaves his side briefly to dump the cup in a nearby bin. 

“Hm, so am I.” Because he is, and because saying that it’s okay would be wrong, because it’s not. It’s nothing Grantaire isn’t used to hearing, but it sucks every single time. It always stings, no matter how much Grantaire pretends that it doesn’t affect him —not this, not anything else, not nothing at all; Grantaire is good at pretending nothing fazes him, that nothing matters, and he even believes it, to some extent. But if Grantaire looked at it carefully, if he was entirely honest with himself, he would undoubtedly notice that he doesn’t  _ not _ care nearly as much as he’s scared. Of caring, and of suffering for it. He chases the thought away before it’s fully formed. Now is not the time for existential crises. 

There is a long beat of silence, one that should definitely be more awkward than it really is. And really, most of the awkwardness lies in Grantaire’s Herculean efforts not to blurt a confession of undying love to a dude he’s only seeing for the third time in his life. It wouldn’t even be sincere —at this point, all that Grantaire can promise with complete honesty is his undying lust— but it wouldn’t even be that far from the truth either. A guy like Enjolras— well, Grantaire knows he could love him, and quickly, too. 

“There’s an exhibition on Troy,” Enjolras suddenly blurts out, thankfully sparing Grantaire from any embarrassing confession. “At the museum,” he says, gesturing the large building at the end of the park, “they have a private exhibit dedicated to the Trojan War.” 

“I know,” Grantaire says abruptly, startling himself. He almost wants to laugh at the both of them, at their fumbling. Grantaire doesn’t think he’s good at much —a gross lie, according to most of his friends— but in spite of his unfortunate looks, Grantaire does well enough with people. Grantaire is not easy to love, but he’s good at pretending he is sometimes, good at smoothing his own edges and charming others. Today, he feels like a pre-teen with his first crush, about to trip on his own feet and stutter his way through a request to hold Enjolras’ hand —he wouldn’t; maturity has brought him just enough lucidity to know that Enjolras is so not in his league, Grantaire might as well be the guy collecting the balls at the side of the field. “That’s where we were supposed to go after the hot chocolate,” Grantaire explains. 

“Oh. Um, do you still want to go? I meant to see it myself.”

“Oh,” Grantaire answers. Surely there’s some dickhead etiquette out there stating very clearly that going on the date you’d planned with one person with the person who just helped you put an end to said date  _ is _ a dick move. “Sure. Let’s go.” Again, Grantaire is fine with being a dick. He’s also proud not to have stuttered too much, or fainted, or something equally embarrassing. 

The exhibition is amazing, and Grantaire won’t shut up —he can’t. He knows he must be about as obnoxious as Enjolras had been to piss Céline off, but he’s a Classics graduate, and you simply can’t ask a Classics graduate to rein it in when faced with an almost three thousand years-old cup that pictures Achilles, veiled in mourning after Patroclus’ death. Try showing that to a  _ queer _ Classics graduate and expecting them to shut up — impossible. Anyway, Enjolras surprisingly doesn’t seem to want him to shut up. He listens to Grantaire droning about that cup, about the volute krater at the Louvre picturing the same scene (but it’s not exactly the same), and Grantaire lets himself be carried away because Enjolras keeps asking the right questions, spurring him on. 

Near the end, the exhibition focuses on the potential locations of the city of Troy, of whether or not it might have been real, of the various sites that are suspected of being the fallen city. Grantaire shuts up, then, because he doesn’t really care much about that. The possibility of it being real doesn’t interest Grantaire; he likes how this story and others exist in human minds, how they are passed on and on and still fascinate, though they should seem outdated, out of touch with reality, what with their gods and prophecies. 

To fill in the newly formed silence, Grantaire asks, “By the way, I was making shit up as I went, but were those high school stories real?” He’s been curious about it; they seem likely enough coming from Enjolras, who Grantaire knows to be an activist who volunteers his time helping strays to get out from stupid dates.

Enjolras looks equally sheepish and proud, like a cheeky kid who knows his prank was clever. “Maybe.” 

“Even the bathroom protest?” 

“Maybe,” Enjolras repeats. “But I usually wait until the fourth date crashing to share the bathroom protest story.” He smirks and moves onto the next panel of the exhibition.

Grantaire thinks that he’ll be dragging his jaw on the floor for the rest of the day. Is this  _ flirting _ ? Grantaire can’t quite tell, both because sexy, adorable, godly-but-maybe-human-and-better-for-it Enjolras cannot be flirting with  _ Grantaire _ , and because Grantaire, however smooth and charming as he may feign to be, has been having too bad a streak of dating to be sure he’s on the receiving end of flirting. 

“What were you like in high school?” Enjolras asks when Grantaire eventually gathers his thoughts and joins him.

“You would have hated me,” Grantaire says, voicing his earlier thoughts. And that’s not quite the answer to Enjolras’ question, but it’s about as much as he’s willing to say.

“I don’t know, someone who likes literature and drawing, and didn’t you say that you’re a boxer, too, in your Hinder bio? Sounds pretty interesting to me.” 

Grantaire shrugs. He does do these things, and way more —not that he’s about to tell Enjolras, lest he get the wrong idea and believe that Grantaire does more than filling his days with activities and his nights with people to distract himself from his worries, his apathy, his  _ weariness _ . 

“Speaking of drawing,” Enjolras starts again, not even looking at the maps of Turkey theorising the location of Troy, “please don’t feel like you have to accept, but remember the pamphlets I was talking about the other week?” Grantaire nods. “The protest is actually real, though it only takes place at the end of this month. The girl who was supposed to design them had to pull away —family stuff— and I was wondering if you’d be interested in helping us out?” 

Grantaire isn’t, not really. He’s been commissioned for a few things already, and activism really isn’t his jam. He’s always thought it pretty pointless, but he knows he’ll say yes the moment he locks eyes with Enjolras. He turns to Enjolras, who is looking down at him expectantly and softly, and hears himself say, “Sure.” 

Enjolras beams. Grantaire’s heart skips a beat, or twelve. There’s no way even Achilles was nearly this radiant. “Really? Thank you so much, Grantaire. You’re really saving us.” 

Grantaire scoffs, but it’s half-hearted, unconvinced, much like everything Grantaire does in life. “Well, it’s about time I help you.” 

Enjolras waves him off. “I do this because I want to, I don’t expect anything in return.” Of course, he doesn’t. He’s much too kind and good for that, for expectation of reciprocity. “Could you give me your phone number? I’ll text you the details, what we’re looking for and all that.” 

He’s already pulling his phone from his jeans pocket, waiting for Grantaire to recite his number, which Grantaire does, barely even aware that he is still in his own body. 

They leave the exhibition, Enjolras still chatting about the sort of pamphlet they expect, the cause they’re fighting for, and Grantaire half listens, trailing behind Enjolras. He doesn’t catch half of what is being said, doesn’t even ogle Enjolras’ butt; he focuses on his breathing, on the curls pooling on Enjolras’ shoulder, on the width of his frame, and on the distinct, familiar,, loud, screaming thought in his head. 

_ Fuck _ .

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who usually go here.... yes, I know....... I'm a hoe for museum dates, so I'm legally obligated to sprinkle them in everything I write..... 
> 
> Also the Troy exhibition is inspired (and by inspired I mean it's literally the same thing in my head hdjfkd) by an actual temporary exhibition on Troy which took place at the British Museum in London last year, and I really enjoyed it! Just picture that one at a nondescript museum in Paris.


	4. FOURTH

The fourth time Grantaire uses Hinder, he both knows what he’s doing and he doesn’t. He’s lost and desperate and he’s hungry for something he can’t name, something he can’t sate. 

He had a few one night stands after that day at the museum. He tries to scratch the itch that’s been running under his skin ever since Enjolras strode inside the café to rescue Grantaire from Pierre the Dull. But the touch of others’ skin against his, something he’s always welcomed easily enough —for a long time, the feverish pass of strangers’ touch was one of the only things keeping Grantaire warm inside, the only way to make him feel close to others— only serves to make him hungrier for something he doesn’t have. It makes him feel lonely. Which, in and of itself, isn’t a brand new feeling for Grantaire, but he feels lonelier, the loneliest. 

The worst of it all, what truly kills Grantaire, is the possibility. Grantaire is realistic and self-deprecating enough to remind himself that this possibility only exists in his head, really, but in theory, in dreams,  _ everything is possible _ . Enjolras has his number, and he has Enjolras’. Enjolras texts him every other day, he gives him instructions, indications, information, and he asks Grantaire for updates.  _ How are the pamphlets shaping up? Are you getting somewhere? When do you think you’ll have them done? _ And Grantaire wants to scream, to break something, to throw his phone in the toilet and flush it away, to hold it against his chest, have it framed on the wall, just above his bed. He wants Enjolras to ask him about anything else but stupid pamphlets, until the day Enjolras actually does and asks him about his day and starts chatting with him like they’re friends, and Grantaire breaks down again. He wants to text Enjolras about anything but stupid pamphlets, anything other than a cause he doesn’t believe in and doesn’t care about; he wants to ask him out on a date, or on sixty. 

It’s all very confusing, even for Grantaire, who is used to navigating the meanders of his own mind. Grantaire, who knows he doesn’t do well with others anyway, because he always ends up fucking it up. Grantaire, who doesn’t know what to do about it. 

So Grantaire does the only thing he knows how to do well: he fucks it up. He leaves the pamphlets unfinished when they really only need a stroke or two to be complete, and he doesn’t answer Enjolras’ texts for a few days, and he downloads Grindr and goes on the first date he can score, even though he knows he’ll hate it and the guy and everything about it.

He does hate Marceau. He hates the reason he caught Grantaire’s eyes in the first place: his striking similarity to Enjolras’ features, only they’re not quite as good, as defined, as clear, as  _ Enjolras _ . And quite frankly, Grantaire hates everything about him. Marceau isn’t as boring as Pierre, as shady as Montparnasse, nor as ignorant as Céline, but he’s got a sleaziness to him that Grantaire  _ hates _ . Granted, this is a Grindr date, and Grantaire was the one who asked Marceau out after just a short about three texts. If there’s a small-talk minimum to reach, their conversation barely even met it, so it’s pretty fair of Marceau to assume that this date isn’t so much a date as it is the start of a hookup. But when Grantaire arrives, he hates it all, and he hates that he reaches for his phone, for that damned app, and he hates that the reason he uses it is in hope that Enjolras will be the one picking up his desperate “Crash my date!”

Of all the many,  _ many _ things that Grantaire hates today, the absolute worst is the way Grantaire’s breath catches in his chest when Enjolras enters the bar. He hates the relief he feels —not because he was worried or anything, but because he’d missed Enjolras an unfair amount. Yeah, he hates that, too. 

It’s still early, and the bar isn’t very busy, but Grantaire is already drunk —he started drinking before Marceau got there— so Grantaire can’t say for sure what has him swaying — the alcohol or Enjolras’ anger. Because Enjolras is using the same technique he’d used with Montparnasse when he reaches their spot at the bar. 

He looks furious at Grantaire —and how much of that is faked? It looks significantly more real than it had the first time around— and disgusted at Marceau when he says, “Grantaire, can you explain to me what’s going on?” 

Marceau spins and immediately removes the hand he’d dropped on Grantaire’s waist, the fingers he’d slipped under his t-shirt to tease at the skin and play with the edge of Grantaire’s belt. Grantaire wants to sigh in relief, hide from Enjolras’ gaze and possibly even vomit. It’s all a bit much. 

Grantaire is just as dumbfounded as the first time this scenario happened, and much more unsettled by the very real possibility that Enjolras might actually be mad at him for his silence and flakiness —and wasn’t that what he’d been working towards? He’s just reaping the consequences of his own good ol’ self-sabotage. 

Because Grantaire still doesn’t have any more experience in cheating than he did a few weeks ago, he goes for the same unimaginative answer, “Babe, this— this isn’t what you think.” 

He thinks he’s starting to sound pretty convincing, even if it sounds all wrong to him; he’s drunk and he’s not even a “babe” sort of guy, when it comes to pet names. Calling Enjolras something as nondescript and mundane as ‘ _ babe _ ’ sounds ridiculous and even a little insulting. Enjolras deserves something much more romantic and cheesier, though Grantaire can imagine Enjolras preferring people to stick to his name. But this is  _ pretend _ , which stings to remember every time a little more, and Grantaire isn’t about to use his ‘my love’ on a pretend boyfriend, especially on a pretend boyfriend who’s painting him as a cheater. 

“This isn’t what I think? That’s good, I guess, because what I think is that this looks an awful lot like my boyfriend is having a date and getting all cuddly with some rando,” Enjolras spits out, fuming. 

“Hey—” Marceau starts, and Grantaire knows by now that this is a mistake.

Enjolras looks pointedly at Marceau who has the presence of mind to flinch. “Some rando who really should get a hint and fuck off so that I can talk to my boyfriend and he can explain why exactly he is so  _ unreliable  _ and  _ untrustworthy _ ,” he says. 

And okay, that’s pointed again and this time it’s definitely directed at Grantaire, who may not be all that bright, but definitely enough to recoil a little. Enjolras’ anger, when it is honestly directed at him, isn’t nearly as pleasant, Grantaire finds out. It’s still thrilling, and Grantaire still finds it all absurdly hot, the way his eyes flash madly and his nostrils flare and his jaw clenches tight, but Grantaire also distinctly preferred it when it was fake. There is disappointment painted all over Enjolras’ face, and Grantaire has to add that to the long list of things he hates today. 

Marceau finishes his drink in a single swig and gathers his jacket. “Psycho,” he grits out to himself, just loud enough for Enjolras to definitely hear him over the music. “Good luck with that one, Grantaire. And also, fuck you,” he says, and he’s off. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Grantaire sighs, waving him off. He’s suddenly so tired, but he braces himself for the rest, because surely that was just the beginning of it. “What is it with you making me look like a total dick? A cheater, seriously? Again?” he says to Enjolras as soon as Marceau leaves.

Enjolras grits his teeth. “I don’t know, you don’t seem to me like you’re the most reliable guy in the world.” And that’s a fair point. Grantaire isn’t. But he’s just proud enough to be offended anyway.

“Oh, I’m sorry I have a life and I can’t dedicate it all to your stupid pamphlets and your dumb cause,” Grantaire sneers, because this is a train wreck and because he believes in owning up to his mistakes in the worst possible way, in following them through till the bitter end. This is what he was looking for anyway, wasn’t it? Sabotage, giving a reason for Enjolras to pull away and stop bothering with him, because Grantaire would never have the courage and strength to do it himself. 

“Right, and what a life that is. Dating losers you can’t even stand to stay in the same room as for the entirety of a date. Or do you get a kick from leading them on and getting someone to crash your date?” And that’s fair. Grantaire isn’t that much of a dick that he’s been relishing in leading people on, and he  _ hasn’t  _ been leading them on. Not as such. Considering how poorly the dates went down, he would have undoubtedly pulled away even if it had happened before his meeting Enjolras. But there’s also no point in pretending that Enjolras hasn’t been a factor in it all. He’s gone on dates in hope to get him off of his mind, which in itself is already a shit move. And he’s eagerly used the app, hoping to see Enjolras, when he could have politely put an end to the dates instead. 

“Fuck off,” Grantaire says simply, because he has no excuse, nothing better to retort, not when Enjolras is so painfully right.

“Also, my ‘ _ stupid pamphlets’ _ ? I told you you didn’t have to say yes, I never forced you to do so and help my ‘dumb cause’. I’m sorry I didn’t think that a man offended by biphobia would think protesting for LGBTQ+ rights would be  _ dumb _ ,” Enjolras spits out, digging an accusing finger in Grantaire’s chest. Grantaire almost topples backward on his stool; he’s still drunk —even drunker, in fact, as his last whiskey is finally reaching his head— and Enjolras’ touch on his torso affects him much more than he would like, given the circumstances.

“You think it’s gonna change anything?” he retorts, because it’s better than whimpering because a dude who’s mad at you just touched you and you want more, more, more of that contact. “You really think anyone gives a shit about us? Please, watch the state of our world. It’s one step forward and fifty steps back at every turn. No one gives a shit about our rights and no one will.” 

“Right, and no one is ever going to give a shit about us if we’re not heard, if they believe we’ll just stay silent and take it.” Enjolras is livid. Just like he did with Montparnasse, he looks split between disbelief and cold, violent rage. He hovers somewhere between the two, eyes widening in shock then his frown deepening. He seems to be struggling to control it all, to rein it in. It’s interesting, Grantaire thinks,  _ anger management struggles _ . He stores that in his head, tucks that in with the rest of the things about Enjolras he wants to remember after tonight, which is undoubtedly the last time they’ll see each other. 

Enjolras is softer, smaller, when he continues, but no less acidic and frustrated. It’s almost worse. He’s not any less angry with Grantaire, not any less disappointed; he’s just decided that he wasn’t worth the energy of a fight, and something tells Grantaire that this doesn’t happen often, Enjolras giving up. “Can I ask you why, though? Why did you agree to help? I specifically told you you didn’t  _ need _ to. Why tell me you would do it and then drop it and put us in trouble? The protest is next week, we’ll never find anyone to do it on time now.” 

Grantaire opens his mouth a few times, only to close it again and again. He frankly doesn’t know what to say. He doubts that ‘I have a crush on you that’s bigger than the Eiffel Tower, and I was so distracted by how hard I was trying not to look at your ass that I didn’t realise what I was agreeing to’ would cut it. It’s the truth, though, as pathetic as it is —and pathetic’s fine, really. Grantaire can deal with pathetic; he deals with it on the regular already. 

“Why, Grantaire?” Enjolras insists when no answer comes. But Grantaire has no answer to offer him. He rakes his head for one, anything, even a lie, but he’s kind of tired of improv and lying and quick thinking for some gullible idiot to buy, and Enjolras is anything but a gullible idiot. So Grantaire doesn’t answer, because he cannot. Enjolras sighs, and he looks almost sad, now. Grantaire  _ hates _ that more than the rest. “I see.” He steps back, gives Grantaire one last bitter, sad and almost pitying look and says, “Goodbye, Grantaire.” 

And then he’s gone. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..... sorry? :)) Let me know how badly you're mad at me for this chapter?


	5. FIFTH

Unsurprisingly, Grantaire feels like shit. It’s not only unsurprising because Grantaire pulled a Grantaire, which means he fucked up something that could have at least led to a nice friendship —even if it would have clearly been an excruciating one full of unreciprocated feelings and pining on Grantaire’s side— for no other reason that it is better done by him early on, than having people realise how not worth it Grantaire is after he’s gotten too attached, but also because Grantaire generally feels like shit. So now Grantaire feels doubly like shit. Like a two-tiered cake made of shit, and the stupid unfinished pamphlets lying on Grantaire’s coffee table are the rotten cherry that sits on top of his shit cake. Grantaire hasn’t been able to resolve to chuck them away, though they’re hardly going to be useful to him now. In all fairness, Grantaire hasn’t been able to resolve to do much for the past two days. Mostly, he’s just been lying on his sofa, first sleeping off his hangover, then getting drunk again, only standing to use the loo and get more beer. 

Grantaire manages to get a full two days of sulking, self-pitying, and terrible coping mechanisms before he’s rudely interrupted by Jehan. They have been friends for a long time, and Jehan knows Grantaire better than most; they know how he gets, they know the wells he manages to dig for himself to get stuck in. Over the years, they’ve also come to know when to throw him the rope to get him out. 

“Grantaire, let me in,” Jehan’s voice calls from outside Grantaire’s door. Grantaire is shaken out of his hungover torpor. “Grantaire, please let me in, or I’ll have to use my spare key.” Grantaire gave them one a few years back for such scenarios; they don’t happen quite so often anymore, but there used to be days during which Grantaire couldn’t even drag himself out of bed, even with his friends’ pounding at his door, so he had given a key to Jehan just in case. Jehan, in return, had also given Grantaire a key to their flat. They didn’t need to, as such; Jehan doesn’t get the same troubles, their mind doesn’t suffer in the same way that Grantaire’s does, but they’d given him the key anyway. One night, a few years later, they’d confessed the reason they’d given it was for Grantaire to feel better about himself. A return of trust, a show of friendship. Grantaire had cried, then, and his eyes fill with tears when he hears Jehan on his doorstep.

“Let yourself in,” Grantaire calls out. His voice is hoarse from disuse and dehydration, and he really cannot find it in himself to stand and walk to the door. It’s possible that he has forgotten a few meals. He’s feeling a little shaky —more so than he usually does, that is. 

“Okay,” Jehan says, and they unlock the door carefully, shutting it quietly behind themself, as if they’re scared to startle Grantaire. Grantaire wants to snort; he’s way too out of it to startle at anything —the building could crumble under him and he’d still be drifting asleep on his sofa, he thinks. But he also wants to cry at their precaution. Grantaire has fantastic friends —when they don’t try to set him up with weirdos— but no one shows him care and tenderness quite like Jehan. 

Grantaire  _ does _ start crying when Jehan comes in and take in the state of chaos Grantaire’s flat is in, surveying without a single hint of disapproval. He sniffles miserably, and Jehan makes their way to the sofa. 

“Hello, friend,” they say. They lift Grantaire’s head, and he grunts between two sniffles. He whines when his head is manoeuvred into Jehan’s lap. Grantaire would perhaps feel a little shame at being so vulnerable, but Jehan has seen him worse. Jehan has seen him at his  _ worst _ , in the past. They’ve found him laying in a pool of his own sick, they’ve picked him up beaten up bloody on the street after he’d picked fight after fight, like a miserable, destructive pub-crawl. “When did you last eat, darling?” 

Grantaire hums, because grunting hurt his throat last time, and because he doesn’t really trust himself speaking, yet. He’s crying softly, now, just a few tears pouring down his cheeks, but he’s scared of what will come out when he opens his mouth. A senseless rant, a sob, an excuse that’s not meant for Jehan but that he should most definitely give to Enjolras. 

“Yesterday?” Jehan asks. They understand, Jehan always does; Grantaire really doesn’t deserve their friendship, he thinks. 

Grantaire nods. He thinks he might have had the end of a rancid baguette. Maybe even a chunk of cheese, judging from the taste in his mouth that’s sticking to his palate —though Grantaire hasn’t brushed his teeth in two days either, so the salty, stale taste might not be cheese at all. 

“I’ll bring you some food and some water first, and then we’ll talk, if you feel up for it. Okay?” Jehan continues, and they even run a soothing hand through Grantaire’s hair —they’re brave like that, because his hair hasn’t been washed either and Grantaire is pretty sure it looks like a gross nest, one after the chicks have flown away, all mussed and covered in feathers and shit. 

They fix him some lunch, although it might actually be closer to dinner. Grantaire’s hasn’t looked at the time in a while and it’s hard to tell this late in the year. The sun sets way too early and Grantaire loses any grasp on the passing of time —not that he has much to begin with. 

Jehan makes Grantaire sit up when they return, and they set a bowl full of pasta in his hands, along with a fork. “Please eat a little,” they say. They also set a glass of what Grantaire assumes is water and not vodka, because Jehan isn’t that great of a friend —and that’s not right, because Jehan is the best of friends; it’s Grantaire who’s an ungrateful brat with terrible coping mechanisms, Grantaire has to chide himself silently.

Grantaire eats, and the more he eats, the more he realises how ravenous he was. Jehan fills his bowl with a second helping, and two more glasses of water, when Grantaire downs them in quick succession.

“Better?” they ask when he’s done. 

Grantaire croaks, “Yeah. Thanks, pal.” 

“Of course.” They smile, and Grantaire almost feels worse for it, because what has he done to deserve this?  _ Nothing, _ Jehan would tell him if he voiced it aloud.  _ Friendship doesn’t have to be earned. It’s not a trade. I give it to you freely. _ “Now come, let’s cuddle, and you’ll tell me what brought this on.” 

They direct him, move him around until Jehan is on their back and Grantaire is resting his head on their chest, squeezing their torso tightly. They have an arm wrapped around his back, pressing him against them, and the other cards careful fingers through Grantaire’s curls, untangling them as well as they can. “Tell me.” 

So Grantaire tells him. He goes back to the beginning, he even covers the part he’d already told Jehan a few weeks ago. He tells him about Pierre, who was boring, Montparnasse, who was creepy, Céline, who was ignorant and unwilling to learn, and about Marceau, who wasn’t Enjolras. And he tells him about Enjolras always being there when Grantaire needed him, and of his pamphlets, and—

“Wait, can you repeat what you just said?” Jehan asks suddenly, stilling their hand in the tangle of Grantaire’s hair. 

“I said that Enjolras came with me to the exhibition?” Grantaire says tentatively. 

“He’s called Enjolras? And he needs pamphlets for a protest? Is the protest for LGBT+ rights, perchance?”

Grantaire shifts in Jehan’s hold to look up at their face. “Yeah. How do you know? Heard of it before?” 

“I have,”Jehan says. “Enjolras told me. I’m part of the organisation.”

“Wait, what? You know him? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Maybe because you only called him ‘Apollo’ or ‘Adonis’ or ‘this legit, for realsies, honest-to-god  _ God _ ’, or some variation thereof,” Jehan points out, and okay, that’s a fair point. Grantaire had stuck to that; saying Enjolras’ name felt a little too real, at first. Like he wasn’t allowed to say it, almost. And later on, it’d just caught on. ‘I went on a date’, ‘Did your Greek god rescue you again?’ and that’s how it’d stayed. 

“Wait, so you know him? From where?”

“The student organisation you refuse to be a part of, darling,” Jehan explains. And that’s also fair. All of his friends —all but Eponine, really, who stands firmly by his side to stew in skepticism, disbelief and a general ‘Party Pooper’ attitude, if activism really can be considered much of a party— are part of it. Jehan, Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta. They’ve gone for the past year, and try as they might, they’ve never managed to get Grantaire to join. He didn’t even remember the name, but now he knows why it had sounded vaguely familiar when he’d written it on the pamphlets.

“Ah.”

“Yes, ah. So I do know your Enjolras, I even introduced him to Hinder. You’re right, he’s attractive.” 

“I know, right?” Grantaire whines into Jehan’s pink overalls until he catches himself. “I mean, he’s not ‘ _ my _ ’ Enjolras. He’s not my anything at all, now.” And that does come out as a pitiful whine, too, which Grantaire plans to stop caring about. He feels pitiful, anyway, so he might as well sound like it.

“Don’t say that,” Jehan soothes, and bless their big, generous, super weird heart, for that, but Grantaire scoffs, because optimism is way out of Grantaire’s grasp on good days, so it barely even feels on the same plane of existence as Grantaire today.

“No, I fucked up. He definitely doesn’t want to see me anymore.”

“You did fuck up. You tend to do that when you’re afraid, you know that.” Jehan really knows Grantaire well. He doesn’t try arguing with them, not when they’re bang on the money. “Have you tried apologising, though? It’s not like you stepped on his cat, pushed his grandma down the stairs, or set fire to the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen. You screwed up, but apologising and doing better is always an option.” 

Grantaire squeezes onto Jehan tighter. “He didn’t strike me as a very merciful guy. More like a scary ‘disappoint me once, and we’re through, and you can consider yourself lucky if I do smite you’ god-like being.” 

“Well, you don’t know him that well, do you? Just try to apologise. If he tells you to piss off after, that’s his right. And it’ll be my right to tell him off for that, too,” Jehan says, finally untangling one of the knots matting the back of Grantaire’s head. 

“Please don’t,” Grantaire says, because Grantaire feels pathetic enough having to rely on his friend to remind him to feed himself and drink something other than alcohol when he gets like this. He doesn’t need them to go tell off the kid on the school ground who refused to be his friend and let him play in the sandbox. He does appreciate the attention, however. And he appreciates Jehan. He doesn’t tell them nearly enough, considering the bullshit they put up with. “You’re the best, you know that?” Grantaire tells Jehan softly. 

“I do. Bahorel reminds me every morning with a Post-It note. He sticks it on my forehead when I’m asleep before he goes to the gym.” Grantaire laughs. Sincerely, because he’s so very happy that his friends receive the love that they deserve, and a little bitterly, too, because it sounds  _ so _ nice, and sometimes he’d like to have someone to stick Post-It notes onto. “You know, Enjolras might like Post-It notes,” Jehan continues, as if reading his mind. 

“Nope, he likes pamphlets, and he doesn’t have any. Because of me.” 

“Right, well. Maybe he likes both. You can’t know for sure. You should try apologising, first, but you could ask?” 

Grantaire hums, but he doesn’t answer. 

“I’m just saying that he decided to go help you out of  _ all _ your dates,” Jehan points out. “If he didn’t like you at all as a person, he wouldn’t have decided to crash your dates.”

“Wait, can he see whose date he’s crashing before he accepts?” Grantaire asks, confused and more than a little shaky.

“Yeah, once you’ve crashed a person’s date, you see their icon the next time they need help,” Jehan says, pulling the app to demonstrate it to Grantaire. On the map, there are a bunch of little exclamation marks indicating that someone is looking for a date crasher. And somewhere, a few Metro stations over, a little pin shows the picture of a guy. “That’s Nathan. I crashed two of his dates, already,” Jehan explains. “I won’t pretend I know what goes on in Enjolras’ head, but when you apologise about the pamphlets, you should perhaps ask about Post-It notes, too.”

* * *

  
  


So the fifth time Grantaire uses the app, it’s two days after Jehan came over to talk some sense into him, and he feels like a complete idiot —a common occurrence, too. He’s back at the café at which he’d invited Pierre the first time, but he’s on his own, this time. On a date with his misery and terrible ideas. He hesitates a very long time before opening Hinder, and his finger hovers over the “Crash my date!” button for a long, long time. When he finally musters up the courage to bring his finger down, his hands are trembling so hard that misses the button by a good centimetre. 

“ _ Fuck _ .” 

Grantaire has no certainty that this plan will work, and quite frankly, he feels dumb even just putting it in action. He could have simply texted Enjolras to meet up, or even just sent him an apology by text, but Grantaire —and this is really what wound him up into this situation— is a little extra, sometimes.

There’s every chance that Enjolras will ignore his call for help and leave him hanging, waiting for someone to crush the date he’s not even on, but Grantaire  _ really _ hopes Enjolras will show up, because he’d hate for some random stranger to come all the way here for nothing. And okay, this idea is stupid, but it’s too late now, because Grantaire has already pressed the damn button, he’s doing the thing, committing to his dumb idea till it bites him in the ass.

In spite of himself, Grantaire can’t quite repress the thought that he’d like  _ that _ specific idea to bite him in the ass when Enjolras appears at the entrance of the café, which is wildly inappropriate of Grantaire, and therefore quite on brand. 

Enjolras’ face is drawn tight, when he walks in, and it doesn’t light up when he spots Grantaire at his table like it had that time with Céline. If anything, his jaw tightens and his entire posture stiffens. Grantaire gulps.

Enjolras sits at his table, but he says nothing. He stares at Grantaire, studies his face for something Grantaire is sure he won’t find. Unless it’s regret, because Grantaire has got plenty of that; he’s been swimming in it, lately. 

“Hey, Enjolras,” Grantaire says when it becomes clear that Enjolras won’t greet him.

“Your date has left already?” Enjolras asks stiffly. “Are they in the bathroom?”

Grantaire grinds his teeth, fighting against hope to retain any semblance of control over his tongue, because Grantaire is known for a great many number of things —all fairly negative, except perhaps for his very decent skills in the bedroom— but his head-to-mouth filter is not one of them. Or rather, it is. He’s just known for not having one. And jokes of poor taste come to him much too naturally when he’s nervous.  _ My date just arrived _ . He wants to say, but he’s pretty sure he’d get smacked in the face for that, once by Enjolras himself, and another time by Musichetta when she heard of it, and probably one last time by Bahorel because Jehan doesn’t like hitting their friends, but Bahorel always gladly volunteers to do it for them.

“They didn’t show up,” Grantaire says. “Or uh, I didn’t have one.”

Enjolras eyes him for an impossibly long time, and he’s so expressionless, Grantaire hates it. He misses Enjolras’ passion written all over his face. Something tells Grantaire that apathy is an unusual look on Enjolras’ face. “Right,” Enjolras says eventually. “I suppose there’s a reason for you to use an app meant to get help for people who might be distressed, when you’re clearly not?” 

_ Ouch. _ That’s not the first time Grantaire feels like a dick for using Hinder, but it’s the first time he considers that point, that someone might be in trouble and that he’s hogging their knight in red-hoodied armour because Grantaire decided to self-sabotage, and because he’s too extra to apologise like a normal person. “Uh. There kinda is?” he tries. “I wanted to apologise, explain what happened.”

“I see,” is all that Enjolras says, and seriously, it’s getting a little unnerving. Really, Grantaire should have known better than to cross that dude when he’d seen him with Montparnasse, but Grantaire had been a little too turned on by the situation to register it as a cautionary tale. 

“So, first,” Grantaire says, and he reaches under the table to get his backpack, and pulls a stack of pamphlets out of it. “I wasn’t sure how many you needed, but I printed a bunch already. Which I probably shouldn’t have done before you approved of the design, fuck, sorry.” And that’s just typical, isn’t? Grantaire managing to fuck up an apology. 

Enjolras reaches out for the pamphlets, his eyes roam all over them for a while, he turns them around calmly, studies them, until he sets them back down on the table. He makes no comment on them, lets nothing through as to whether he likes them at all. His attention shifts back onto Grantaire, he doesn’t let his gaze stray away from him, and he really is too good at this whole stare battle intimidation technique. It’s really disconcerting.

“And uh, that’s not what I should be apologising about. Well, yes, that too. But first, I’m really sorry about bailing out on you when I accepted the project. I said I’d do it, and that was a real dick move to bail on you, and even more so not to tell you I was dropping the project,” Grantaire says in a rush. He doesn’t really trust himself to get everything out if he stops at all, and he doesn’t trust himself not to bolt out of the café the moment he takes a breath, so he continues. “I self-sabotage. As soon as things are turning out nicely, as soon as I get something that might turn out cool, I fuck it up. I’m too scared it won’t work, and I’m even more scared that it  _ will _ work, so I make sure that it won’t even start.” And that’s a tough one to get out for Grantaire, who can talk shit for literal hours about pretty much any topic at all, but who struggles significantly more when it gets  _ real _ . It took him an entire month before he stopped deflecting his therapist’s questions with shit puns and whatever passably witty remark he could scramble. 

“So, you think that Les Amis de l’ABC might turn out cool?” Enjolras asks, and  _ really? _ That’s what he takes from Grantaire baring his heart right here? He barely even remembered the name of the organisation, and he wrote it on pamphlets he got printed a few hundred times. 

“No,” Grantaire says, “I mean— yes, but kind of no. Your organisation is cool, I’m sure, but I still kinda stand my point, about what I said. I don’t think what you’re fighting for is wrong. It’s good, the cause is good. Good for you, guys. I’m not sure it will amount to much, but that’s nothing personal, I swear. I just genuinely don’t think that people are willing to listen to any of us, that it will amount to anything. But it’s good of you to do it anyway,” he rants aimlessly.

Enjolras’ mask of impassivity breaks, then, and he leans forward on the table, his face animated again. Grantaire half wants to sigh in relief. Sure, Enjolras still looks a little pissed off, perhaps even more so since Grantaire had to go and apologise by saying ‘I still think you’re wrong’, which really isn’t Grantaire’s brightest moment, but mostly, Enjolras looks alive and passionate again, and it’s addictive. Grantaire thinks that if this is the view his friends get every time they go to those stupid meetings, he’s not surprised they keep on going. He might even be convinced to go too, now that he’s gotten a taste of it, of Enjolras blurting out loudly, with no care for the neighbouring tables:

“But that’s the point! It’s as I said last time: people will never listen to us if we shut up! Do you know how many rights we acquired through protests? We need this sort of visibility, we need to fight until they listen.” 

Grantaire opens his mouth, ready to retort, because nothing ever changes, does it? Progress is invariably followed by regression, that’s just how things are. Surprisingly enough, Grantaire manages to hold his tongue. His mouth hangs open for a bit, until he’s sure he’s regained some vague control over it. This is meant to be an  _ apology _ , not a rematch to piss Enjolras off even further, no matter how appealing that sounds right about now, with Enjolras turning almost as red as his hoodie and his eyes shining bright with fire again. 

“Right. I think we disagree on that. I don’t disagree with your cause, though. Also,”  _ shut up, Grantaire _ , “Les Amis de l’ABC isn’t what I had in mind. It’s not the ‘could be cool thing’.” 

Enjolras frowns. He looks disappointed, possibly a little angry again, like he was almost about to accept his and Grantaire’s disagreement peacefully, and from what Jehan told him two days earlier, that’s very unusual for Enjolras. “What is it?” he asks warily.

“Well, uh,” and Grantaire isn’t very pleased to find out that his apology was the  _ easy _ part. “I liked spending time with you and—” he starts, and he is painfully aware that this is shaping up to be the lamest crush confession in the history of crushes. Grantaire may be a dick, and pathetic, and a mess, but he refuses to be  _ lame _ . “Do you like Post-It notes?” 

“What?” At least Enjolras doesn’t look too upset anymore. He does look confused as hell, and almost worried that Grantaire might be drunk, or concussed, or both, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to snap or storm off. Grantaire is off to a good start. 

Grantaire has the situation under control. 

Grantaire panics. 

“You? Post-Its? Foreheads? You know what I’m saying?” Because right. That does sound about right. All these events culminating to this point, this very moment, to the single most embarrassing and nonsensical thing Grantaire could have possibly said to the single most beautiful and wonderful man Grantaire has ever met. Grantaire has definitely gotten his groove back. Grantaire is on fire. “What I mean is, you know the birds and the bees? And like, when a guy likes another guy and uh— and Patroclus. _ Patroclus. _ And Ganymede, too, and Hadrien and Hyacinth. That’s clear enough, right?” 

“Uh…” Enjolras says, and perhaps that’s not nearly as clear as Grantaire hopes this is going to be, and that’s fair enough. It’s not clear. Not even a little bit.

“So, uh. Can I be Hyacinth?”

“You want to die and be turned into a flower?” Enjolras says. And, alright, Enjolras still looks pretty confused, but  _ thank fuck _ he gets the reference. Grantaire is already doing the world’s worst job at asking someone out in the history of ever, but he’s sure he’s got the potential to make it even worse still. A lecture on the myth of Hyacinth and Apollo, for example, could make it worse. 

“More, like, I want to fuck Apollo.” Never mind, Grantaire hardly needs a lecture to make his confession even more disastrous. And he’s on a roll. “Or to be fucked by, you know, I’m not picky.” 

“So you just want to have sex?” Enjolras doesn’t look entirely offended, which is more than Grantaire expected, at this point. But he also doesn’t look all that enthusiastic about the prospect. Mostly he has a little something reminiscent of the last time they saw each other, something like disappointment and a touch of sadness. 

“Uh, not only? Not at all, if that’s not on the table? Holding hands sounds pretty cool, too, to be honest. And like, more museums. Museums, holding hands. That sounds pretty neat,” Grantaire fumbles, and at this point he’s not even mad anymore. Blurting out that he wants to hold hands at a museum is still leagues better than ‘do you like Post-It notes?’ and ‘I want to fuck Apollo’. He’ll take what he can get. 

Enjolras is frowning again and Grantaire feels his heart fall into his stomach, and he’s feeling so sick, at this point, he’s half sure he’ll just end up throwing it up on the table. And Grantaire did have in mind to bare his heart to Enjolras, but that’s a touch too literal, even for him.

But Enjolras doesn’t seem to be about to shout at Grantaire, he doesn’t seem too angry anymore. Rather, Enjolras bites at his bottom lip, thoughtfully first, then almost as if he’s… trying to suppress a smile? Maybe Grantaire did throw up his own heart and he’s dead and he’s just having visions or something, that’s the white light at the end of the tunnel and—

“Just so you know, I take offence in being compared to a god. Being human is hard enough, I don’t want any responsibility of that sort, thank you very much.” And Enjolras is so smart, but he’s also apparently really good at picking up entirely the wrong point. Is that really what he’s mad about? “Also, you bailing out on us and not letting me know  _ was _ a dick move. I was really pissed.” 

“That’s fair,” Grantaire says, because this is a build up, isn’t it? A whole build up to rejection, and it’s not like Grantaire doesn’t deserve it, what with his fucking up before anything even starts, then apologising terribly and confessing even more poorly, but it’s still scary, and it’s still going to sting like hell, and Grantaire can’t quite keep quiet as he braces himself to be told to get lost. 

“Your pamphlets are really good, though. Unfairly so. I swear, I was ready to trash talk them. I was really annoyed, and really feeling petty,” Enjolras cuts in calmly, and is that another  _ smile? _ “So I’m kind of annoyed that they’re so good, but they really are. Thank you for that.” 

“Uh, of course.”

“Now you’ll have to let me know what’s up with those Post-It notes; I feel like I’m missing something and I don’t want to make a misinformed decision.” Enjolras really is straight up grinning, at this point, and Grantaire’s heart is back to hiking its way up his throat, but it feels almost good? Grantaire kind of wants to join it and have a dance or something. “But holding hands at a museum sounds like a good start.”

Grantaire is elated; he cannot believe his fucking luck. Things like this simply do not happen to him. He has to pinch himself, say something, not leave Enjolras hanging, convince Enjolras that this will be worth it, that  _ he _ is worth it. So, Grantaire brings it back to a very Grantairian level. “Cool! I have hands.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all who have mortifying asking out stories, this is for you! Also, remember that there's always worse! You could have listed a bunch of queer classical references and confessed wanting to fuck the sun! 
> 
> Just one part left! Thank you so much for sticking with it! <3


	6. + ONE

“Is that why your butt looks so good?” Grantaire sighs as he drops onto a chair.

“What?” Enjolras almost misses his own seat as he whips his head towards Grantaire. 

“The protest, the march. Do you know how long we’ve been walking? If that’s your only exercise, then I’m not surprised your booty is so… _shapely_.” 

Enjolras splutters, fiddling with the sugar packet he’s about to empty into his cup of coffee. Grantaire winces —the drink already has cream and an insane amount of syrup, how is he even planning to drink that thing? Grantaire’s teeth hurt from the sheer thought of it. “Were you checking my butt out?”

“Oh, definitely. How do you think I managed to stick around for the whole parade? I needed the incentive,” Grantaire says matter-of-factly. “And what an incentive that was. It was go—”

“If you say ‘godly’ and compare me to the sun, Grantaire, I swear—” Enjolras threatens, but there’s no heat to it, and Enjolras is doing a shit job at hiding his smile. Grantaire really prefers when Enjolras fakes his anger towards him. It’s much easier to enjoy it that way, to take it in smiling like a fool without having to hide it.

“No, I was about to compare it to the moon.” 

Enjolras snorts. A real, full blown, ridiculous, ungraceful _snort_. If Grantaire isn’t entirely smitten already (he is), he will definitely be by the end of next week, at the rate things are going. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Enjolras says.

“What gave me away? My terrible attempts at dating a varied array of idiots? My sabotaging something before it could even start? My amazing, incomparable, unmatched declaration and attempt to ask you out?” 

“You know, you still haven’t told me what the Post-Its were about,” Enjolras points out, pouring a third sugar packet in that poor, defenceless coffee. Grantaire wonders for a moment how much he needs to add before the drink turns into a grainy paste. 

Grantaire hums. “You’ll know when we get there.” 

Enjolras smiles, gaze holding Grantaire’s steadily, and he really is too good with his stares; he’s issuing a challenge. “I guess I will.” 

Grantaire chokes on his sip of tea and has to take a moment to recover from his cough, while Enjolras, the bastard, watches, looking mightily pleased with himself.

“How did you find it, by the way?” Enjolras asks eventually, when Grantaire is able to breathe through both his nostrils without feeling tea stinging through them. 

“What?” 

“The protest. Was it as useless as you’d thought?” he says, and he’s smirking again. Enjolras really is much too smug for Grantaire’s taste. He’s running the terrible risk of being snogged by Grantaire within an inch of his life over this very table at any given moment. 

“It was alright, I guess,” Grantaire admits.

Enjolras pulls at the sleeve of Grantaire’s jumper, and Grantaire only just realises quite how close they’ve gotten to each other. They’re both leaning heavily on their elbows over the table, so close that their hands are resting just a few centimetres away from each other. Their faces, too, are dangerously close. Grantaire most definitely _could_ make good on his mental threat, if he wanted to. _Boy, does he want to_. 

“Come on, you have to confess that the turnout was good.”

“Okay, true. I didn’t expect so many people to show up. The pamphlets were completely gone within the first hour.”

“That’s because they were great,” Enjolras says, and has he moved his hand to touch Grantaire’s? Is he trying to be sneaky, with his featherlight touch running on Grantaire’s knuckles? To hold his hand without Grantaire realising? The _dork_. Joke’s on him, Grantaire won’t let this opportunity slip from his grasp —he’s done enough running away. He turns his hand to tangle his fingers with Enjolras’. His grip is tight, and Enjolras squeezes back. When Grantaire looks back up from their hold, he finds that Enjolras’ smile is about as wide and ridiculous as Grantaire’s own. 

“The protest wasn’t half bad either,” Grantaire has to confess, partly because it’s true, and partly because now that he’s holding Enjolras’ hand; he’s not about to fuck it up and let him go. His skin is too sinfully soft for Grantaire to let go any time soon. “My feet are killing me, and I would do unspeakable things for a foot rub, but it wasn’t _awful_.” 

“Well, that’s a shining review,” Enjolras says, but he doesn’t look upset, not even a little bit. If anything, he keeps leaning forward, getting closer and closer to Grantaire, who will do _nothing_ to stop him in his tracks. Not when he’s definitely spotted Enjolras’ eyes flicking down to Grantaire’s lips for a heartbeat or two. Which is fair enough, Grantaire hasn’t been able to stop staring at Enjolras’ ever since he realised how close they are to each other. They look so plump and inviting, he wants to—

Because he’s pretty sure Enjolras is big on spoken consent and all that jazz, Grantaire makes himself ask before he closes the gap, “May I?” 

Enjolras nods, and Grantaire brings his mouth to Enjolras’, grabbing his other hand in his. He doesn’t kiss him nearly as deeply and thoroughly as he’d like to, because they’re hunched over a table in a very public space, but he does his very best to press and nibble and even swipe his tongue out in a flash. Enjolras lets him, too, and gives as good as he gets. He tastes like a faint hint of coffee, and a truckload of sugar, and Grantaire laughs into the kiss in spite of himself. It’s glorious.

“What?” Enjolras asks; he’s visibly confused, but he doesn’t look too upset. He looks a little dazed, his lips are shiny and open. 

“Nothing. Just the first time I’ve tasted coffee-flavoured sugar, that’s it,” Grantaire teases, nudging Enjolras’ foot with his under the table. 

“Hey!” It comes out pitiful and entirely unconvincing; Enjolras hooks his ankle with Grantaire’s. Grantaire has to take a second to consider if one can sprain a cheek muscle from smiling too hard. 

Enjolras drops one of Grantaire’s hands to reach for his cup of awful sweetness and he takes a sip, eyeing Grantaire pointedly over the rim of his cup. Grantaire uses the opportunity of his freed hand to dig for his phone in his jeans pocket. He taps on it for a few seconds —it takes a while longer than usual, one-handed, but Grantaire isn’t letting go of Enjolras any time soon.

“Grantaire, if you’re using Hinder, I swear to God—” Enjolras warns.

“Oh, what will you swear to daddy?” Grantaire prods, because he can’t really help it. That earns him a kick to the shin, and it actually hurts a little, but he’s not mad at it. He kinda deserved it, like most of what happens to him, and he doesn’t think that it’s humanly possible to be mad when Enjolras is laughing at his side, sticking his tongue at him like a cheeky child. “Relax, I’m just telling Jehan not to wait for me for our weekly dinner.” Enjolras beams at him, and Grantaire wants to mirror him, but it comes out a little more sheepish, shy. “Besides, I think I’m ready to delete the app. Can’t really call my divinely human saviour for help if I’m dating him already.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo! If you've made it this far, thank you so much! Also, one _major_ thank you to all of those who have commented such kind words as this story progressed. I've been going through some tough personal stuff as of late, you can't understand how much your support and kindness has meant to me 💛
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> Please remember us writers are mostly human and that we, too, thrive on kind words and validation! If you enjoy what you read, please consider leaving a long ass comment on what you liked, or a very short comment with one word and your favourite emoji, or just one letter, whichever looks the cutest to you? I personally also accept keysmash, inane screaming, some trivia facts about your favourite animal, a care package with a small selection of your favourite bath bombs, a whole ass helicopter OR Jeff Bezos' bank details! 
> 
> Thank you for reading, byyyyye
> 
> You can find me on [my main Tumblr](https://brie-on-bread.tumblr.com) and on [my Les Mis one](https://les-amis-dcd.tumblr.com)! Come and talk! I rarely bite!


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